


Believe In the Everyday

by SpiritsFlame



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Pining, Still Hockey Players (Hockey RPF), Urban Fantasy, boys being stupid, emotions equal magic, this is my emotional support flower, witch!sidney
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 22:11:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17968985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritsFlame/pseuds/SpiritsFlame
Summary: As such things go, Sid is a pretty terrible witch. He went through the mandatory classes in elementary and middle school, had even attended the few electoral classes at Shattuck-St. Mary's, but it’s nothing that can help him with hockey, and he’s never seen the point.But lately, his magic has been out of control, erratic and unpredictable, and he's starting to think he should have paid more attention. There's an old wives tale about what happens when at witch falls in love, but that-- that's not an option.  He just has to get over it.





	Believe In the Everyday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CloudCover (RainyForecast)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyForecast/gifts).



> For Dana, who is indirectly responsible for this whole hockey thing.

**** As such things go, Sid is a pretty terrible witch. 

“I mean, I wouldn’t say terrible,” Sid protests, stretching out on the couch. 

Geno makes a face at him. “No, is terrible.” 

Geno, Sid has learned, has strong opinions on magic, even if he doesn’t have any himself. Geno has something, something that Sid can sense in the blood, the way he can sense Flower and Sunshine and Seguin and a dozen or so other players all across the League, but whatever it is, Geno has never disclosed, and it’s rude to ask. 

Sid is pretty sure it’s something in the shifter family, several generations back, but Geno is right enough about Sid’s abilities that Sid can’t tell for sure. 

“Your face is terrible,” Sid mutters weakly, frowning. 

Geno reaches over and pats Sid’s knee comfortingly. “Is okay. Like you best anyway. Bad at magic, good at hockey.” 

The light next to Sid flickers dangerously as Sid’s face heats, and he can only pray that Geno doesn’t notice. 

“I’m great at hockey.” He only gets to say things like this around close friends, around Geno and Flower and Tanger, people who won’t read it as arrogance. Sid could be better, he could always be better, but he’s not so modest as to deny his own skills in private. 

Geno rolls his eyes. “Yes, Sid best at hockey. Best at hockey, best at life, still bad at magic.” He’s joking, but Sid can tell he means it, under all the joking. It’s always bolstered him, that Geno believes in him so thoroughly. He can shut out everything, the press, the public, even his dad, if Geno still believes in him. 

Sid doesn’t have any time to get good at magic, doesn’t see the point, but he does believe in the power of belief. He wonders, sometimes, if he would be half as good without Geno at his side, a rock-steady presence, a well of support and belief when Sid can’t find any in himself. 

Sid pointedly turns his attention back to the TV, which is absolutely no help. In the middle of an insurance commercial, it’s hard to pretend that it’s that interesting. 

He can see Geno smirk out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t call him on it. Which is nicer than Geno usually is when he’s right, and makes Sid instantly suspicious. Sure enough, after another few minutes of both of them pretending to watch the commercials, Geno, overly solicitous, says “Could get magic coach? Russian, knows real magic.”

As if Canada isn’t internationally known for magic. 

“I’m going to go take a nap,” Sid says, not even bothering to answer. Geno’s tongue is sticking out between his teeth, eyes sparkling. 

“Could recommend good teacher!” Geno calls after him, and despite the architectural impracticality, Sid wishes there was a door to the stairs so that he could slam it. He’s no sooner had the thought when the closet door, the one closest to Geno, flies open and then slams closed. 

Sid stops with his hand on the rail and turns to stare at it. Geno, still on the couch, does the same, then slowly turns to look at Sid, eyebrows raised. He can feel heat crawling up his neck, his ears. He snatches his hand off the banister before the heat can spread to his hands, in case it’s more literal than he expects. 

God, what is wrong with him. He hasn’t lost control of his magic since he was in Juniors. 

Then Geno starts to laugh, and Sidney feels the breath rush out of him in sheer relief. 

“Okay, not worst at magic.” Geno holds his hand out, index and thumb just centimeters apart. “Just little bit bad.”

Sid makes himself smile, tries to pretend he did it on purpose, like his magic hasn’t been spinning increasingly out of control for weeks now. “Don’t doubt me again,” he says, in mock severity. 

Geno gives him a sarcastic salute. “Yes, Captain.”

Sid rolls his eyes. “I’m going to nap now. You can stay, or not.”

“Can use guest room?” As if he doesn’t know by now. As if this new part of the routine, the hours between practice and a home game, hasn’t already fallen into a distinctive pattern. 

“You know where it is,” Sid tosses over his shoulder. 

This thing, this whatever it is, with Geno is new. They’ve been teammates so long, been friendly, but they’ve never truly been friends. That started to change after Sid’s concussion, after Geno’s surgery, but this— Geno coming over two or three times a week, napping in Sid’s guest room— is new. It’s been a few months now, and Sid doesn’t remember which one of them had instigated it.

He doesn’t know what it means. 

The thing with his magic is new as well— new and alarming. It only seems to flare up around Geno, and only since they started spending more time together. It’s only getting worse. Last month it had just been static shocks and inexplicable breezes, and now this. He’s always been powerful, enough that his tutors had despaired that he was choosing to pursue hockey instead of magic. Sidney had learned enough to control himself, control his magic, and no more. 

Magic hadn’t helping him as a kid, another thing that set him apart from his peers, and it hadn’t helped with his concussion. As Sid saw it, magic didn’t accomplish anything he couldn’t do himself with hard work and time. And, on occasion, a lighter. 

All regulation hockey rinks had null fields, and the Penguins had even had them installed at the Penguins rink after Flower had put up a magical field around the net during practice to fuck with them. 

It’s harder than usual for Sid to get to sleep. He can’t stop thinking about Geno down the hall, about how he can still feel his magic buzzing under his skin, warm and so present. He ends up closing his eyes and slipping into meditation. He prefers true sleep, but he’d learned to meditate almost before he could walk, and it works on the days that sleep won’t come. 

It’s supposed to give him better control, to anchor him, but he can still feel his magic sparking under his skin when he rouses himself. Geno isn’t up yet when Sid goes downstairs, but there’s at least ten minutes before Sid has to interfere, so he drinks a bottle of gatorade and puts away their dishes from lunch. 

As it turns out, he doesn’t need to get Geno up at all, because he lumbers down the stairs with three minutes to spare, in plenty of time to make it to the rink. 

Sid loves home games. He likes away games fine, likes anytime he can play hockey, but home games are charged in a way no away game can be. Years, decades of support, of wins and losses, cheers and tears of everything in between, have sunk into the very foundation. He can feel it from every brick and stone, humming in the floors, the walls. Every step he takes, every deliberate motion he makes, presses his own intent and desire into the building. With over ten years of playing here, even his own energy hums back at him. 

He may not actively practice magic, but he knows better than anyone how much routine matters. How the simple act of repetition, of believing that the repetition matters, can make a difference. He doesn’t put magic into it, not when the null fields would catch it, not when it feels too much like cheating for him anyway, but there is power in routine, power in repetition. 

They win in overtime, on Geno’s goal, and Sid’s mouth goes dry at the filthy wristshot,and even through the null field he can feel his magic buzzing under his skin when he slams into Geno, screaming in his ear. Geno grins back at him, beaming and joyful and Sid wants— and then the rest of the team is crashing into them both, cheering and yelling. 

Sid can feel the difference the second he steps off the ice. The hum under his skin gets louder, and lights of the arena brighter, the sounds sharper. He feels like he’s glowing, a palpable aura of power on top of his skin. A quick glance reveals his own normal skin color, but he doesn’t miss the way that Flower’s head whips around to look at him.

Flower, who has more training than Sid does. Flower, who doesn’t have Sid’s innate ability to sense raw magic but is better at identifying what he does sense. Their eyes meet for a brief moment, and Sid can see surprise, and then dawning realization, before he looks away. 

He tries to pull it in, imagining it like how he would reel in a fishing line, pull the magic back under his skin where it belongs. Then Geno’s hand settles on his shoulder. 

“Such serious face!” he says, shouting to be heard as they head down the tunnel, the team’s voices mingling with the continued noise from the crowd. “We won!”

“Good shot!” Sid yells back. 

Geno beams, not a bit bashful. “I know!” Sid has always liked that about him, his easy and brash confidence, the way he never equivocates about his own skills. Geno’s hand falls from his shoulder as they keep moving, and it’s easier to breathe, to try and reign in his magic.

They all spill into the locker room, laughing and chatting. Usually, Sid loves the energy of the locker room after a win, tries to sit on his bench and press the feeling into the wood, as if that will carry them through a disappointing loss. 

But this time, his locker springs open before he touches it, and even the joy from the win is fading the longer Sid fails to rein his magic in. He keeps his focus to himself, stripping out of his gear and trying not to let anything else happen. 

“We’re going out tonight,” Tanger says, appearing suddenly enough that Sid jumps. That, more than anything, shows him how out of it he’s been. Hockey players aren’t known for their subtlety, and no one should be able to sneak up on him here. Tanger, damn him, doesn’t miss it either. “Woah, you good?” He puts a hand out, reaching for Sid’s shoulder, and Sid abruptly knows what’s going to happen before it does. Tanger has barely made contact with him when he’s already pulling back, shaking out his hand. “Youch! Damn.”

Sid can feel the magic crackling around him, out of control and terrifying. “Sorry,”

“Just a static shock,” Tanger replies. He’s still shaking out his hand, clearly more than just a little spark. “You coming to the bar?”

Sid already feels out of control, barely contained in his own skin. He doubts adding alcohol to the mix will help. “No, go on without me.” 

There’s a chorus of boos from all around them, good natured and unsurprised. Sid forces a grin, waving them off. They’re well used to this by now, and no one pushes him. 

He rushes through the press, pretending not to notice the confused frowns as a few microphones flicker and die as he describes Geno’s game-winner, and gets into the shower as quickly as he can. It’s an old-wives tale that rushing water can wash away errant magic, but the hot water is steading. He stays in longer than he needs to, feeling like the water on his skin is pushing the magic back into him, or smoothing it away. When he gets out, the locker room is almost empty.

Almost, because when Sid steps out in a towel, Flower looks up from his phone. “So. When were you going to tell me you were in love with Geno?”

Sid rocks back on his heels, and Flower’s phone gives a sad chirping noise, sparks twice, and dies. 

“Hey!” 

“Sorry,” Sid says. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” he ducks his head, trying to hide a flush. 

Flower frowns down at his phone. “I had new baby pictures on there,” he says mournfully. 

Sid has found older phones to be much more resistant to magic than smartphones, but it seems discourteous to say so. “I—sorry.”

Flower sighs. “No, I shouldn’t have surprised you.” He tucks his phone into his pocket. “It’ll be backed up on the cloud anyway.”

Maybe that is one point in favor of smartphones, then. 

“I have to,” Sid indicates his locker. Flower rolls his eyes. 

“If you think seeing your freakish ass is going to scare me away, you don’t know me very well.”

Sidney doesn’t have a reply to that, not a dignified one, anyway, so he gets dressed in silence. 

“Do we have to talk about this?” he asks when he’s done, reaching down to grab his bag. 

Flower comes closer, stretches out his hand and stops almost an inch away from Sid’s skin. Sid can feel his magic crackling around Flower’s palm, just short of shocking him. Flower just raises a brow, pointed and smug.

“Fine,” Sid says, swinging his bag up and only barely not hitting Flower with it. “But not here.”

“Vero is making extras for dinner,” Flower agrees cheerfully, and pushes ahead of Sid out of the locker room. Sid glares at his retreating back, then follows, resigned to his fate.

* * *

  
  


Vero greets them both at the door, giving Flower a quick kiss and immediately handing him Estelle. She doesn’t seem at all surprised to see Sid there, only gives him a familiar greeting and returns to the kitchen. 

Sid watches, throat tight, as Estelle babbles happily at her father, looking up at him with warm brown eyes. When Flower leans in to kiss her cheek, she giggles happily and pats his face with her chubby fists. 

She is so cute, so beautiful, almost glowing in the evening light coming through the high windows. Then Flower turns to Sid, eyebrows raised, and Sid realizes that she i _ s _ glowing, a soft golden light emanating from her skin. When she gives another cheerful giggle, unaware of the magic, the light flares in a soft aura. 

“Oh fu-fuuudge,” Sid catches himself. He tries to rein in the magic, reaching out for where he can almost feel it around Estelle, a staticy hum, just out of reach. It’s like trying to catch water, slipping away from him. 

“You have to handle this,” Flower says, matter-a-fact rather than chiding, and then drops Estelle into Sid’s arms without waiting for an answer. Sid almost drops her in surprise, but she goes momentarily feather-light in his grip, just enough for him to steady her. She turns her easy smile on him, making grabby hands at his face until he leans in close. 

Sid does so, and even Flower’s smirk isn’t enough of a forewarning to stop her from grabbing two fistfuls of his hair, tugging hard enough to make his eyes water. 

Flower laughs, sinking back against the wall as Sid tries to extricate himself from the grip of an infant. 

“The mighty Sidney Crosby, brought down by a baby!” Flower crows. Estelle, more than likely prompted by her father’s laugher, begins to giggle herself, tugging on his hair like reins in her mirth. When Sid finally frees himself, Flower swoops in to give Estelle another quick kiss. “That’s my girl!” To Sid, he adds “I always knew my line would grow to defeat you.”

Sid resettles Estelle to his hip, summers of training on his cousins giving him the basic knowledge, and aims a scowl at Flower. It’s undercut by the fact that Estelle hasn’t stopped glowing, and Sid can barely contain a smile at Estelle’s laughter.

“Such treachery, from my best friend,” Sid says. Flower only shrugs.

“Trust no one,” he says, clapping Sid on the shoulder. 

Dinner is fairly quiet. Estelle settles down to a small glimmer, which Vero mercifully doesn’t comment on. Vero’s food is delicious, a vast improvement over the years from when the three of them would eat the most health conscious takeout they could find. 

Flower and Vero are only too happy to let Sid take over feeding Estelle, and even getting mashed chicken puree in his hair can’t damper his spirits. 

After dinner, after Sid has put it off as long as he can by helping with the dishes and putting everything away, Flower steers him into the living room. “We talk as men,” he says to Vero, who rolls her eyes. 

The Fleury couch is large and comfy, made to hold upwards of six hockey players, and Sid curls up in a corner and tries to avoid meeting Flower’s eyes. He knows where this is going. Knows where it has to go, and how little he can do to change it. 

“Do you know why we named her Estelle?” Flower asks, after a long silence. Sid doesn’t answer. “When she was born— they gave her to Vero, and she looked up at us, and she started to glow.” Sid can’t help but look at him, the love and affection in his voice, “Our little star.”

“You never told me that.”

Flower shrugs. “Maybe I was saving it for when I needed to impart wisdom to my oblivious friend.” Sid makes a face, and Flower makes one back. “My point is, I get it. I remember that feeling, how overwhelming. And it was me and Vero both, pouring our love into her.” He meets Sid’s gaze head on. “We all know what happens, when a witch falls in love.”

Sid tries to scoff, and can’t quite manage it around a throat gone tight. “That’s an old wives tale.” 

“Is it?” Flower asks. Sid looks away. “It wasn’t so bad, when I met Vero. I was young, and I’m not as strong as you are.” He grins. “Not as stupid, either. I didn’t pine as you do. But you, you bottle it up and you hide it away, all your love, all your affection, until the only place it can go is your magic.”

Sid thinks of Geno, his bright eyes and brighter smile. His beautiful hockey, his temper and the way he deals with Sid’s idiosyncrasies. He has to clench his hands into fists when he feels magic burn behind his eyes, in his palms. Geno has always—interested him. But it’s only recently, on the tail end of his concussion and under their increased time together that it’s turned into this— this fascination. This desire to be around him, be the recipient of his smiles and his time. There is no name for it, not one that Sid is able—is ready—to give it.

“It’s my business,” Sid says, when it becomes clear that Flower is waiting on him. “The null fields—”

“I’m not talking about hockey,” Flower snaps, forceful enough that Sid’s head whips around before he can reconsider. “This, your magic, it will burn you up if this continues.”

“What do you want me to do?” Sid asks. “What, tell him? Have him look at me, sad and pitying, and explain that he only likes girls, that he’s never going to stay here, he has to go back, go home to Rus—” his throat closes up around the words, and the entire room flickers alarmingly. 

Flower inches closer, puts an arm around Sid’s shoulder. It’s a comfort he would allow to no one else, except his family and Geno, and it’s enough to stabilize the lights, if not Sid’s breathing. 

“I don’t think that’s what he would say.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“I don’t know. I have my theories, what I suspect, but it’s not the same. What I do know is that saying nothing, doing nothing, will kill you.” He presses his forehead to Sid’s hair, as openly affectionate as they’ve ever been. “I don’t want to lose you, my friend. Not for this. Not for something you can fix.”

Sid turns his face into Flower’s shoulder, feeling very young and fragile. “What if he says no,” he asks. 

“Then he says no,” Flower replies, just as soft. “But you’ll know. And it won’t be all caught up, leaking out in your magic.”

Sid sits in silence for a moment, breathing, before he pulls back. Flower lets him. The seat cushions, when Sid looks are coated in a thin frost, iced over in the shape of fingers where Sid’s hands had been.

“Oh, Sid.” 

“Sorry.”

Flower shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.” He helps Sid dust off the frost, then stretches. “Did you want to help put Estelle to bed? If I have to read her the duckling book again, I might scream.”

It’s hard to pretend the offer isn’t out of pity, but Sid accepts anyway. It’s worth it, for the way Estelle watches him, eyes slowly slipping closed, as he reads from her favorite book.

* * *

Flower doesn’t know everything, and Sid has never met a problem he can’t solve with hard work, dedication and a good training routine. 

He sleeps less, meditates more. He blocks out times on his calendar to sit and pull the magic into him, imaging a wall between his emotions and his power. He makes it part of his pregame routine, getting to the rink earlier than ever. He sits on the very edge of the null field and tries to draw that feeling into himself, a barrier over his skin. 

He spends less time with Geno. He’s been indulging himself, taking up Geno’s time, taking up the space beside, carefully carving a place for himself in Geno’s life, and allowing Geno to do the same to him. The space Geno has carved is hollowed out and filling with magic, brimming up until it spills everywhere. Sid has to fill it in, brick it over, until there is nowhere for the magic to go.

It’s hard. It’s hard to pull back, to step away from the place at Geno’s side, to turn down Geno’s invitations. His house, always too big for him, seems to echo cavernously in the hours between practice and a game, until he finds himself anticipating roadies. 

His hockey is excellent. He doesn’t have anywhere else to put the energy. Magic can’t spill out on the ice, a safe haven from the turmoil that has taken over the rest of his life. 

None of it seems to help. Sid comes home from one practice to find that the decorative plants by the door have grown over the entryway, and he gets the dubious honor of having to climb in through the unlocked living room window in the back. Another day, Geno slaps his ass in the locker room and the lights go out, plunging the room into darkness. When the lights come back on, Flower gives Sid a scathing judgemental look. 

Sid just focuses on his own stuff. He can’t—there’s no energy to participate in locker room chirping, all his concentration dedicated to keeping himself in control. When Geno’s hand comes down on his shoulder, Sid jumps, but the lights stay on, Geno doesn’t flinch back from errant sparks and—when Sid checks—his phone still works. 

“Lunch?” Geno asks. He’s been asking less and less over the last few weeks, and when Sid glances at him, he can tell that Geno doesn’t expect Sid to agree. He looks withdrawn, tired. They’re all winter-pale, but Geno seems more so, as if he’s started drawing the cold into himself. 

Sid should say no. He needs to say no. 

He can’t say no.

“For sure,” he says, and it’s almost worth it at the way Geno lights up. There’s no other word for it— he seems to stand straighter, a smile blooming on his face. 

“Yes?” 

Sid can only smile back. “Yeah.” 

“I get my gear,” Geno says, backing away. He doesn’t look away, as though Sid will leave if Geno doesn’t keep an eye on him. Sid’s chest clenches painfully. He turns back his locker, pulling his Penguins hoodie over his head. When he emerges, everything not nailed down in his locker is floating just an inch off the shelves. He slams the door, and slumps back against it, closing his eyes. 

“Ready?”

When Sid opens his eyes, Geno is beaming at him, looking like an overeager puppy. How could Sid ever give him up? Something clatters in his locker, and Sid pushes himself off of it in a hurry.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

“You drive?” 

Sid hitches his bag over his shoulder. They have a game in the evening, and it’s how they’ve always done it, but it feels different now. Intimate. Dangerous. 

“Sure.”

What does Flower know anyway?

* * *

  
  


Sid breathes a sigh of relief when there is no more errant plant activity when they get back to his place. He’ll have to be careful of it on the way out, in case his magic leaves the house encased in vines, trapping them like Sleeping Beauty. 

He drops his gear in the entryway, letting Geno follow suit. Maybe he should get a dog. Something living to take care of, something that loves him. Something else to be the focus of his love.

“What’s for food?” Geno asks, passing Sid in the hall to push into the kitchen. Sid hadn’t prepared anything, had expected to come home alone again and make a sandwich and eat is standing up at the kitchen counter. 

Geno is already rummaging in the fridge when Sid gets there, and he pulls back to give Sid a disapproving look. 

“You forget to shopping this week?” 

Sid makes a face. They’d had two bye days, but it had seemed much easier to stay in, to cover himself in blankets and ignore the frost creeping up the inside of the windows. “There’s turkey.”

Turkey is Geno’s least favorite sandwich topping, but he’ll eat it. He’s less picky than Sid is. Though, as Geno has reminded him time and again, it isn’t hard to be less picky than Sid. Sid had reasoned that, if he didn’t have any food for Geno, he would be less inclined to invite Geno over to eat it. 

Sid hipchecks him out of the way, fighting a grin at Geno’s indignant squawk. “Take these.” He passes out a head of lettuce, three tomatoes and assorted condiments, including Geno’s weird Russian mustard. 

He sets Geno to slicing the bread while Sid takes care of the tomatoes. He’s started on the lettuce when Geno says, mock casual, “We talk about why you ignore me now?”

Sid’s hands freeze, then, with an effort, resume working. “I haven’t been ignoring you.”

“Ignore me now.”

Sid spares him a glance. “I’m making us lunch.”

Geno steps into his space, takes the knife out of Sid’s hands and sets it carefully down on the counter. This close, Sid has no choice but to turn and face him. Their height difference is apparent now, he has to tilt his chin up to look Geno in the eye. 

“Say no to lunch, no to drinks. No to movies.” Geno’s voice is soft, but Sid can hear the steel in it. On the rink, Geno blows hot, lashing out with word and fist. “Even no to practice. But only with me.”

Geno is too close. Sid can smell him, woodsmoke and heat from his cologne and the lingering scent of ice under it. “I haven’t been—” God, Sid can’t think. He doesn’t have a good explanation. He has been avoiding Geno, and he can’t tell him the truth.

“Think maybe,” Geno licks his lips, “think maybe you know how I feel. Want to avoid. Want to not be friends.”

Sid’s heart gives a lurch, his body and his magic reacting before his mind can process the words. He slams his hand down on the cutting board when it lifts off the counter, then drags his attention back to Geno. “Of course I want to be friends!” He can’t process the rest of it. He knows what he thinks it means— but Geno doesn’t— Geno can’t possibly. 

Geno isn’t looking at his face anymore. He’s followed the motion of Sid’s hands, to where Sid is pressing the cutting board down to the counter. Sid looks, and the rest of the lettuce— thank god— isn’t levitating. No sign of errant magic. Sid’s heart is racing.

“Sid, what—” Geno trails off, bringing his gaze back to Sid’s face. “If you still want to be friends, why do you avoid?”

“I’m not— it’s not about you,” Sid says weakly. It’s a poor excuse, and they both know it. Worse, it’s a lie. It is about Geno. It’s all about Geno. “What do you mean how you—” he swallows “how you feel?”

Geno steps closer, and Sid wouldn’t have thought it possible. His heart is thundering in his ears, loud enough he can’t believe Geno can’t hear it. 

“Mean this,” Geno says, and his palm settles, hot and possessive, on Sid’s hip. He moves slow enough for Sid to move, but Sid can’t even make himself believe this is happening until Geno’s mouth touches him. 

Sid’s whole body goes hot.

Geno is slow, careful, and thorough. He kisses Sid like he has to convince him of something, like it’s the only kiss he’ll ever get. Sid clenches his hand at his side, feeling the magic surge in him, desperate and wild. 

Geno pulls back, less than a millimeter between them. “Smell burning?”

“Fuck!” Sid wrenches himself away, yanking his hands in close to his body. There, on the wooden cutting board, the shape of his hand is burned into the wood. “Fuck,” he repeats, softer.

Geno isn’t looking at Sid. He’s staring at the cutting board, the still smoking handprint, the inescapable evidence of Sid’s emotions run amok. “Sid?”

Fuck. “Yes?”

“Is magic?” 

Fucking obviously. “Yes.”

Geno’s face, when he turns it back to Sid, is unreadable. “How long,” he gestures. It’s not fully clear, but Sid thinks he means, how long has it been out of control like this. 

Sid’s face is hot, and he has to be careful not to touch anything, lest it burst into flames. “It’s recent.”

Geno crowds Sid back into the counter. “In Russia, when witch loose control, is a baby or is in love.” He has to tilt Sid’s face up to get Sid to look at him. “Are you baby?”

Sid shoves him. “Fuck off.” There’s no force in it, the shove or the words. 

Geno licks his lips, and Sid can feel the static shock travel from his skin to Geno’s, but Geno doesn’t pull away. “Are you in love?”

Sid can’t help but meet his eyes, and it’s not pity, not disgust, that he reads in them. In answer, he tilts his head up and kisses Geno, both his hands on Geno’s cheeks. 

It’s nothing like the kiss before. It is possessive, both of them participating. Geno uses the hand still on Sid’s hip to pull him closer, tilting Sid’s face into a better position and licking into his mouth with a fierce determination. 

It settles the magic. It’s like the end of a tropical storm, the tumultuous riot of power inside him smoothing out, going from ocean to lake in the space of a heartbeat. 

“I’m think, maybe,” Geno says when they part, resting his forehead on Sid’s. “Coffee always hot, bruises heal fast.” He grins, quick and warm. “Skates stay sharp, sticks not break. I’m think, someone with magic must love. I’m think—I’m hope it’s you.” He swipes his thumb over Sid’s lower lip, following the path with his eyes and then, like he can’t help himself, with his own mouth, just a quick press. “But then you avoid. Won’t look at me, won’t talk to me.”

“I was scared,” Sid admits, safe in the secret space between them. 

Geno laughs, not unkindly. “Why? I’m not scary.”

Sid has to laugh at well, pulls back to see Geno properly. “Are you kidding? Geno, you’re terrifying.”

Geno puffs out his chest absurdly, looking almost proud. “Maybe a little scary.” He gives Sid another kiss. “But protect you.”

There is something fierce in his voice, something that speaks to a lineage of shifters, the lingering instinct passed down the generations. It speaks to the magic in Sid, which sparks up inside him—a hearth fire, rather than an inferno. 

Sid pulls Geno down to kiss him again. “We’ll protect each other.”

Geno smiles into the kiss. “Deal.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> [Come say hi on tumblr!](http://spiritsflame.tumblr.com/)


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